


Eat your ego, honey

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Begging, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub Frank, Tittyfucking, dom billy, dont @ me, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 01:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: His hands shook where he gripped Frank’s shirt in two fistfuls and twisted the soaking, sticking material until it rode up, revealing bruised, hard muscles. Frank smelled nothing like Tom Ford--he smelled of blood, of gun smoke, salt and metal. He smelled like the last few seconds on earth and Billy knew what it would do to his make-up, to the lotions he’d carefully applied hours earlier, but he pushed his face into Frank’s neck anyway, took Frank’s beating pulse between his teeth and bit down with a groan.“Goddamn, Frankie.”After cleaning house on a particularly bloody mission, Billy pulls Frank aside for some private time.Takes place in an AU where Billy gets to Frank not long after he loses his family.





	Eat your ego, honey

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lads, I'd appreciate if you paid attention to those tags up there and decide before you start reading if this is the kind of story you want to read. Thanks!
> 
> Special thank you to my friend and fellow filth-squad member, ssealdog ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/pseuds/sealdog)/[Tumblr](http://ssealdog.tumblr.com)) for betaing! Another special thanks to [lelelego](http://lelelego.tumblr.com) for [her part in... all of this](http://lelelego.tumblr.com/post/169925987342/hey-uhhhhhhh-anyone-order-billyfrank-tw-leash). 
> 
> Title comes from ['You're Mine' by Phantogram](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDLJUoSYNT4).

Hard to say which is better: fast or slow.

Fast gets the heart going. Fast is Frank stepping into a room with a semi-auto on his back and maybe the element of surprise on his side. Fast comes from going up against a bunch of street-level tools who think playing Call of Duty is any kind of substitute for the real thing. Fast comes from good weapons, and a good vantage point, and maybe more than a little good luck.

Fast is rapid-fire, pop-pop-pop, knocking people down like tin ducks in a shooting gallery. Frank moving like some kind of thunder god, flicking retribution one bolt at a time, and there’s nothing left but a smoking crater in what used to be a person.

Sometimes, Frank can do it fast with nothing but his hands, or a blunt instrument. Knocking someone in the temple with a crowbar, taking someone’s head in both hands and twisting an end to their miserable existence. Or a quick, easy flick of a blade, opening up an important vein and dropping them to spend the rest of their lives twitching on the floor. Those are… special times.

Slow, though.

Frank’s not like the others that roll around New York with their little call-signs, media-designated titles affixed to them like stickers in a kindergartener’s report card. He’s not nimble, he’s not balletic. He can’t land a flying kick into a man’s skull, a double round-house to the temple. None of that MMA shit. Frankie learned to fight the way Uncle Sam taught him, which meant he prioritized brute force and quick take-downs. He picked up a few other things, dirtier things, that weren’t about to be taught to anyone in any kind of classroom.

Frank never fights clean. He’s not stupid.

Maybe Frank’s tired. Maybe the next guy down the line was his tenth of the night, and Frank’s not a young man by any means. Maybe a few of the fuckers got in a lucky hit or two. Three. Maybe he’s bleeding already. A bullet to the head didn’t put Frank Castle in the dirt—anything less wasn’t gonna do it neither. But a knock around the head, or a broken rib, or bits of shrapnel embedded in his sides—hey. Frank’s only human. Maybe it’ll slow him down.

Slow is knock-down, drag-out. Slow is split knuckles. Every exhale bubbling through a bloody nose, wheezing from a choke-raw throat. Punch drunk and staggering, stripped down from his cool efficiency, from the collected killer, the dead-eyed soldier, to something closer to his truest self. Chest heaving like something solid about to hatch, a sparking, molten core revealed to the world. Split earth, like the sign of the end times.

It’s always a pleasure, seeing him like that.

* * *

Frank started fast, but he’d finished slow. There’d been too many of them, but that was the point. It was supposed to look like a massacre waiting to happen. To look hopeless. Like Billy was sending him to his death.

More than a few of his people assumed that was exactly what he was doing. It was almost offensive. As if he would ever be so transparent.

There were maybe a dozen bodies in the warehouse, in what used to be a front for heroin trafficking but was now whatever Anvil wanted it to be. A morgue, for the time being.

The place reeked with it—blood and bile and everything else that came out of people when their hearts popped. Billy’s people were professionals. When they swept through the aftermath, they kept their faces straight, stayed cool. They kept to their assigned tasks, cleaning the place from all the evidence, even if they looked a little green around the gills.

Frank was at the end of it, easily followed by the bodies left like breadcrumbs in his wake. He was on the ground, on his back, drenched in red so dark it looked almost black. Staring up at the ceiling with eyes dark and hooded. His breathing had slowed and his hands were still where they lay on the ground, inches from his spent pistol. Down, but not out.

It had to be like this. Everyone had to know, had to understand, about the nature of the beast at the end of Billy’s leash.

Frank wasn’t deaf, even if a few dozen guns had gone off in the same room as him only minutes before. He must’ve heard when the doors knocked open against the walls, must’ve heard the plastic click of tactical wear in movement, the muted sound of combat boots on the ground, the _zip-zip_ of black bags opening. He must’ve, but he didn’t move. Didn’t seem bothered. Like the fight or flight was broken inside of him, and he could think, where other men went blank in the head, about the nature of his surroundings. Enough to decide that nothing here was a threat.

Or, hell. Maybe he was just tired.

Billy didn’t dress in tactical armour, not for this. He’d done his time, and now he wore tailored Armani three-pieces. He liked stepping into places that’d seen violence wearing polished leather shoes, and smelling of Tom Ford. Ginger, spice and tobacco. Ten years ago, he’d have been called a fag for even looking at a bottle of cologne. He took pleasure in his soft, clean hands. He walked through the carnage, through puddles of what used to be people, until he found his boy.

Frankie must’ve heard the click of his heels, so distinct from the others. Billy saw his fingers twitch.

He stopped ten feet from where Frank lay. He whistled.

A few heads turned, but quickly looked away. Billy’s people were professionals, and they were more than a little afraid of him. They were terrified of Frank. No one wanted to get caught in their crosshairs.

Frank raised himself slowly, moving his bruised bulk like it’d been strapped to him, like it belonged to someone else. He pushed himself up on one hand and squinted at Billy through a swollen and bloody face. His upper lip twitched in a sneer, a fresh bead of blood forming where the skin had cracked.

Billy very carefully pushed his jacket open and slipped his hands into his pockets, where no one could see the tremor run down his fingers. Someone would have to look very close indeed to see any cracks in his polished exterior. They’d have to know him very well.

There was only one person in the world who did. Frank’s gaze swept over him, as brief and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. He licked his lips.

* * *

Billy walked them outside, led Frank to the one white van in a line of non-descript black, parked outside with polished shells gleaming like spilled ink in the moonlight. Billy kept his steps even, like he wasn’t particularly bothered about the distance between where he was and getting Frankie behind a locked door. People scurried out of his way, ducking their heads.

He gripped the handle and slid the van’s door open.

“Out,” he said to the startled medic inside.

The medic’s gaze flicked to where Frank stood, just over Billy’s shoulder. Billy bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself calm, centered.

The medic licked his lips nervously. “He needs—“

“ _Now_ ,” Billy’s voice snapped like a rifle recoil and the medic was gone, fled to another van or maybe to another city. Billy stopped caring the second he left his sight.

The door barely shut behind them before Billy was on Frank, pushing him down onto the flatbed of the van, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way there from Jersey.

His hands shook where he gripped Frank’s shirt in two fistfuls and twisted the soaking, sticking material until it rode up, revealing bruised, hard muscles. Frank smelled nothing like Tom Ford—he smelled of blood, of gun smoke, salt and metal. He smelled like the last few seconds on earth and Billy knew what it would do to his make-up, to the lotions he’d carefully applied hours earlier, but he pushed his face into Frank’s neck anyway, took Frank’s beating pulse between his teeth and bit down with a groan.

“God _damn_ , Frankie.”

Frank turned his head, the uneven line of his nose brushing against Billy’s temple. Lips just a breath from the skin behind his ear. Almost gentle. Billy wasn’t fooled.

He pushed Frank flat on the ground, pawing at the sodden shirt, forcing it up over his impressive chest with one hand while the other fumbled with his own fly. He got him on the floor, straddling his hips, and there was blood on both of them now. Streaked across Billy’s thousand dollar suit, in the stubble of his trimmed beard, smeared down the sharp line of his cheek. He dragged his fingers down Frank’s neck, dragging white lines through the red stains, beading blood under his hundred dollar manicure.

He felt as if he couldn’t breathe until he got himself in hand, and then it was as if something had let him go, the pins of some trap he’d set off retracting. He let out a shaking exhale, rocked his hips forward, balancing himself with one hand on the swell of Frank’s pectorals, as sweet and firm as a woman’s tit.

Frank shifted under him, but otherwise didn’t move. He had his hands flat on the ground, just as he’d been trained to do. His face was shadowed, difficult to see, but Billy knew he wasn’t looking at him. He was staring up at the ceiling, same as before, acting for all the world as if his only friend wasn’t sitting on his chest with his dick in hand.

That wouldn’t do. He had planned to just make this a clean jerk, but if Frank wanted to be difficult about this, then Billy could adapt. An old fantasy, one of many, came to the fore of his mind. He gave Frank’s chest a squeeze.

Frank’s gaze snapped to his face, his blank expression fading into wariness, as Billy shimmied up from his lap and settled onto his abdomen. Billy grinned when he caught Frank’s eye, smile sharp in the dark of their clandestine deeds.

Billy had never been much of an admirer of the sculpted types, the Greek gods (or Norse of whatever the fuck) or your Captain Americas. The guys who looked like they came stumbling, spit-shined from a fucking assembly line. Pearly white smiles, straight noses, and clear, blue eyes. Billy might’ve fit right in with those magazine model dipshits, if things had gone different for him. He’d have made a pretty little Avenger.

Frank, on the other hand… He’s not like them. There was a weightiness to him. A thickness that’d drawn Billy’s eyes, even before they started fucking. A body built to intimidate, marked by hard living. Billy sat back on Frank’s six pack, wriggling a little just to feel the shape of him under his thighs.

His sweetheart grin widened when he met Frank’s eye. He grabbed Frank’s perfect tits with both hands, and squeezed them together.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me.” Frank tossed his head back as Billy pushed his dick between his pecs.

“Stay still,” Billy said. Frank’s chest was just as blood-soaked as the rest of him, fresh cuts and scrapes oozing over his fingers, wounds reopening as Billy began to rub himself against him. He jerked his hips, thrusting his cock between the cleavage, watching with fascination as he became streaked with someone else’s blood.

“You watch too much porn,” Frank grumbled.

A backhand across the mouth was Billy’s answer to that. Frank fell back with an exasperated grunt, head knocking against the floor of the van, a sullen breath shoved out of his bloody nose.

Frank was like a furnace under him. Every point of contact felt red hot. Billy could feel him under his thighs, feel his stomach shift with each breath, feel Frank’s pulse under his palm. Alive and burning, fever-hot. Billy’s breath hitched as he dragged his cock through the sweat- and blood-slick embrace of Frank’s push-up cleavage. This wasn’t like any porn Billy’d ever seen. If there had been, Billy probably would’ve spent more time on his computer.

Frank’s fingers twitched on the ground. His jaw worked in silence, and his gaze remained fixed on the ceiling.

“What can I say? You got tits to rival a porn star’s, Frankie,” Billy said. “Can you blame a man for getting tempted?”

Billy was just as heated. Sweat dripped down the straight length of his nose. He could feel it bead under his collar, at his temples. The air inside the van was thick enough to spread on toast. It smelled like Frank, like blood and bared skin, and almost nothing like Billy.

Billy didn’t mind. He’d long ago made peace with the fact that a certain part of his animal brain would always respond to Frank’s scent, signals flashing between synapses. It should’ve plugged into his fear, flicked his fight or flight response, but Billy was broken in ways no shrink could ever fix. And he wasn’t afraid. Not of Frank.

Frank drew in a long breath, the movement of his chest pushing Billy a few inches higher, causing his cock to slip, the sensitive tip of his head to hit the divot of Frank’s throat. Billy gasped, lurching forward at the feel of it.

Fingers brushed lightly against the few inches of skin between his shoes and the hem of his slacks. It shouldn’t have done anything, but Billy was so primed, so sensitive. Always was. Frank pressed his thumb against the knob of Billy’s ankle, sending a spark through him. Billy’s hips stuttered.

He bared his teeth at Frank, who still wouldn’t look at him. For the shadow of a moment, Billy thought he saw Frank’s lips twitch. A faint hint of a smile pulling at that pink cupid bow.

He always tried this. Stupid son of a bitch, thinking he could slide back under Billy’s skin, like they were still in Cerberus, still brothers-in-arms and Billy followed Frank around with big, dumb doe eyes in his head.

Billy gripped the short length of Frank’s hair and pulled, forced his chin against his neck and bent until his lips were inches from the tip of Billy’s cock.

Billy gave a shaking laugh as Frank struggled to give him a look that could scorch a lesser man to the bone.

“Thaaaaat’s right,” Billy cooed as Frank’s lips pulled back, revealing a line of stained teeth. “Just like a good little porn star, you’re gonna take my load in the face. How’s that fit you, Frankie?”

Billy felt Frank’s growl through the exposed parts of him. Frank tried to pull back, jerk his head free, but Billy dug his nails in tight, pulling at his hair like he was gonna yank it off and if anyone else tried this, they’d be dead before they could blink.

Billy came with that thought ringing sweet as a church bell in his head, with Frank glaring at his dick like he wanted to bite it off, with a handful of his bleeding tits under his hand. He painted Frank’s pugilist mug with his cum, white streaks on red and black. Frank winced, jerked back and Billy let him go, let him knock his idiot head against the flatbed.

Billy sat back, panting. His hair fell in loose strands around his face. He stared down at his boy, a smile hooking the corner of his lips.

It was never gonna be like Afghanistan. Not ever again.

Frank’s breathing was hard and uneven, lifting and lowering Billy by inches with each heave. His lips twisted, teeth shining in the scant light coming in through the blackout windows. He still felt feverish, skin tacky where Billy touched him.

Frank was quiet and doing his best to stay still, although he was panting like a dog, but Billy wasn’t stupid. He knew Frank, had known him for years, knew every dip and divot and scar on his beautiful, war-fucked body.

Billy leaned back, settling at the edge of Frank’s pelvic bone. He grinned when he felt a familiar bulge press against the soft swell of his ass.

“Oh, Frankie. You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Billy drew his finger through the lines of Frank’s six pack. Frank growled, the sound so quiet, it was like he didn’t even mean to. He shifted under Billy’s hands, turned his head to the side. “You put down—what? Ten, fifteen people today? Fifteen lives ended by your bare hands and now look at you. You’re hard as flint.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Frank said. Billy flicked his nipple.

“It’s a hard kind of stone, Frank. Point is, I know you. I know how your engine starts running the second that near-death adrenaline rolls back and all you want in the whooole world—” Billy dragged his fingers in a circle, nails skimming over a long cut on Frank’s collarbone. “—is to stick your dick in the closest, warmest hole.”

Billy knew it because it used to be him. Because more than once after coming home from a mission —back when home was a tent shared with eight other guys—Frank would take him to someplace secluded, someplace they wouldn’t be easily overheard, and push Billy down on his knees.

And Billy would go. Every time.

He pressed his fingers against the dip in Frank’s clavicle, feeling the slide of sweat and blood under his fingers. Frank’s throat worked in a swallow, the skin shiny under his stubble.

“Alright, Frankie,” Billy said. “I know what you want. Beg me for it.”

Frank’s face contracted. Billy laughed.

“C’mon, don’t get shy on me, Frankie-boy. You wanna stay like this all night or do you wanna get your dick wet?”

Another swallow. Christ, Billy could watch that throat all night. He slid his hands down Frank’s chest.

“Tell you what. Cause you were such a good boy today, you only have to ask me once.” He leaned his weight back on Frank’s crotch, feeling the pressure and the incredible heat of him, even through all their layers. “Beg me, sweetheart.”

Frank drew in a sharp breath. It was hard to see his face, but the yellow lamp light from outside gave Billy some hints. He could see the curve of his cheeks, his strong chin, the full pout of his lips. Billy had long thought Frank had been a beautiful man before a rough life knocked him into something only a connoisseur could appreciate. He couldn’t see Frank’s eyes, lost as they were in the hollows under his brow, where shadows pooled dark as ink.

But he could feel it when that gaze turned on him. It was an animal thing, that broken part of Billy responding in a way it shouldn’t, something Frank had primed him for during those years they spent living in each other’s empty spaces, the pair of them like that picture of two goblets that could be a face if the watcher unfocused their eyes a little. He’d never shaken the instinct, not even after Frank had ‘died’. His skin still prickled with it, same as it had since day one.

Billy counted heartbeats in silence. He sighed. “Going once…”

Frank watched him. Billy felt his arms flex, felt the pad of Frank’s thumb press against his bare ankle.

“Going twice…” He drew lazy circles over the jumping skin of his stomach, where he knew Frank was ticklish. “S—”

“Please.” Frank’s voice, gravel-rough, and not-quite quiet enough. Billy’s lips parted. He’d gotten Frank to beg for less, but it always satisfied some part of him that sat empty at his core. Filling a hunger that would go on growing, regardless.

He considered making Frank beg in earnest, but no. He didn’t like to go back on his word. And Frankie really had been a good boy lately. Billy smiled.

“See?” He slid down Frank’s body, dragging the length of his lean torso across Frank’s chest. Frank growled like a starving dog who’d caught the scent of a fresh kill. “You ask nice, and nice things happen for you. It’s not rocket science.”

“Billy...” Billy heard the threat in Frank’s voice, the kind of tone that used to make him freeze up, muscles locked out of some primal instinct.

Now the sound was sweet as music. Billy kept on smiling. Frank’s fingers twitched against the floor.

“Billy, I swear to god—” He stopped when he felt Billy’s slender fingers pull at his belt. The buckle clinked as it fell open and Billy took Frank’s zipper between his teeth and slid it open. An old trick that’d drive most of his partners wild.

His mouth watered as soon as the scent hit him, sending him tumbling down memory lane. All the times he’d gotten his face this close to Frank’s bare skin, to the hottest parts of him. He pulled down Frank’s pants and buried his face in the crease of his thigh, breathing in the scent of clean cotton, musk, sweat, and skin.

Frank’s hips jerked as Billy hooked his fingers in the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulled them down.

This was not the first time Billy’d seen Frank’s dick. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time _today_ —but there was something about the circumstances. The musk of Frank, of the violence committed by his hands, the close, humid air of the van, the darkness and the silence that wrapped as thick and suffocating as a heavy blanket around them. Billy half expected to feel the grit of sand under his knees. Hear the click of his dog tags knocking together as he swayed forward, and dragged his lips over Frank’s thick shaft. Licked the bead of pre-cum from the tip of his dick, close his mouth over it and give a single, shallow suck.

But Billy kept his tags in a drawer now. The only time he felt sand on his legs was when he went to a five-star resort in the Bahamas.

This, though. He could have this at any time. He thought about looking up, but he didn’t need to. He could feel Frank watching him, gaze heavy and warm as a hand on his head. He opened his mouth and swallowed Frank down.

Frank was always quiet. His chest might hitch and his breathing might get ragged, but he’d never make a single sound when he had his dick down Billy’s throat. It used to frustrate Billy. He used to wonder if Frank got noisy back home, when he had a soft bed under him, and four walls around him. When he had Maria in his arms.

He used to wonder if Maria would ever do anything like this for her husband. Probably not. Catholic bitch.

God, Billy was so fucking stupid back then. It made him furious to think about now. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked his Frankie down to the hilt.

 _That_ got something. Frank’s hips jerked and his cock bobbed in Billy’s mouth, brushing against the back of his throat. It used to be a point of honour, the way Billy could suck dick like he earned a living doing it. Nice to know he hadn’t lost his touch.

Without thinking why, he grabbed Frank’s hand and put it on the back of his head. Frank’s thick fingers twitched in Billy’s conditioned, baby-soft locks, almost gentle.

Billy wasn’t interested in gentle. He scraped his teeth lightly along the shaft as he pulled off. Frank’s fingers tightened, pulling on Billy’s long hair, just the right side of painful. Billy moaned, his spent dick twitching. There weren’t many things Billy missed about being 21, but the refractory period might’ve been one of them.

Oh well. They had all night.

He gripped Frank’s thigh, feeling the muscles flex and tense under his palm as Frank jerked his hips, shallowly fucking into Billy’s mouth. They found their rhythm quickly, as easy as if they’d never stopped doing this. Billy swirled his tongue over the sensitive tip of Frank’s cock with each up-stroke and he knew when Frank was close. Felt it when he brushed his fingers down over his tight balls.

Frank’s hand fisted in Billy’s hair. He came with a strangled gasp, and a name on his lips.

 _Billy_.

Billy milked him like he was starving for it. He felt Frank’s thighs tremble under his hands, heard his breathing stutter, no doubt overwhelmed and over-sensitive. Billy only eased off when he was satisfied, only when he heard Frankie groan in something that could’ve been pain.

He leaned back on his heels and wiped the spit from his chin, grinning like the cat who’d gotten into the cream. Frank still had his eyes on him. Billy could track the movement of his breathing by the gleam of sweat and fluid on his bare chest. Watch it slow down as he unwound from Billy’s treatment.

Billy slapped Frank companionably on the hip and stood. He pushed his hair back into style, tucked his shirt back in, put himself, piece by piece, back into order.

“You gonna leave me like this?” Frank asked. Billy spared him a quick glance as he wiped his hands clean on his handkerchief. “How am I supposed to explain to the medic why I’ve got cum on my face?”

“How is that my problem?” Billy tipped his chin up and straightened his tie. “After you get patched up, you come straight to my room and wait for me.”

It wasn’t a question, so Billy didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped over Frank, yanked the door open and walked into a night so cold after the warm air of the van, it felt like a slap in the face.

He’d cleaned up, but he’d let his face alone. If anyone were brave enough to look at him, they’d see the blood on his cheek and jaw, lurid as war paint.

**Author's Note:**

> You can kinkshame me over on [nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com](http://nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com).


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